Season
by flawedesires
Summary: A second-person telling of Persephone's abduction.


Your feet light across the floor with a grace not even Terpsichore could accomplish. Your voice, sweet and echoing innocence, reflects off the golden walls, filling the unusual silence of Olympus, the home of the gods. Your home.

On a normal day, Euterpe, Erato, and Polyhymnia would be sitting in the agora, Euterpe playing her aulos, Erato serenading the gods and goddesses wandering by, Polyhymnia harmonizing. You are used to these sounds.

To you, it seems your cousins the Muses have fallen silent to allow you to take your place in singing that day. Satyrs smile and bow as you dance past, gods nod to you knowingly, animals kneel.

You pass a mirror as you run through the halls; you stop to stare. You are, as all gods are, beautiful. Your auburn hair, messy and untamed, but elegant all the same, frames your face in waves, shaking free from the ribbon your mother attempted to use on you. Your green eyes glitter at your reflection with childhood happiness.

But, you remind yourself. You are not a child anymore.

Just the day before, your father, Zeus, had decreed you were no longer a child. You were eligible for marriage, even.

At this, Aphrodite clapped her white hands in joy. Hestia smiled. Athena looked at you in interest. Artemis frowned. Hera looked pleased. Many of the gods' eyes glimmered at the words. Your mother, Demeter, only looked cold.

Already Hermes, Ares, Apollo, and Hephaestus had wooed you, sending your mother gifts, asking your hand. You were flattered, though your mother was not.

To you, each god had something of value. Hermes would make you laugh. Ares could protect you well, though Aphrodite would not be pleased. Apollo was handsome. Hephaestus could craft you the finest jewels, the best home.

But Demeter sends them away.

"None are good enough for you, my Kore," she says, tapping your nose delicately.

You are a bit puzzled. Your suitors seem worthwhile. But what mother says, goes.

Today she calls you to Enna, the meadows down on Earth. The nymphs help you into Demeter's chariot, which carries you safely to the land of the mortals.

You smile as you dance among the grass, grateful for the warm sun, Helios, and the cool breeze, Zephyr. There was a small lake surrounded by lofty and precipitous hills, the meadows on the banks of which abounded in flowers.

You wander away as Demeter becomes absorbed in the planting fields of a small village just outside Enna. The nymphs pay no attention, for they are searching for the specific flowers your mother requested.

It is by a small grotto that you see it: a lovely rose, blood red and perfect. You decide to give it to Demeter. She would love it.

You make your way over to the cavern. The rose's petals shiver in the wind. The sunlight reflects off its bright color. You bend to pick it.

Suddenly the ground rumbles with an earthquake so violent you scream and fall—but the grass does not cushion you. You keep falling, your call for help lost in the wind.

A whinny approaches you abruptly, accompanied by a shadow-like horse, dragging an obsidian chariot with an unfamiliar god standing inside, looking grim.

His arm hooks around you. The horses make a sharp turn, facing the dark void below instead of the light-filled world above. You scream your mother's name, twisting around to reach desperately for the already-closing speck of light, retreating to too far away.

By the time the horses' hooves touch ground, tears are streaming silently down your face. You can feel yourself shrinking, your shining chiton changing to a withdrawn dark cloak.

The god takes your hand, leading you off the chariot with a gentle touch. You are afraid of him. Hades, he says. His name is Hades.

You know this name. He is the god of the Underworld, lord of the dead, king of the earth. Your mother's brother. You shrink away from him.

He offers you extravagant gowns, a garden, sparkling jewels. But you refuse it all. You want no clothes, no blackened plants, no cold stones.

You want the warm sun on your face, the breeze in your hair, the sweet scent of grass filling your nose. You want your mother, your home.

But Hades keeps you there, under the earth, with the cold dead. They peek out at you, at their new queen.

You feel cold. Frozen. Your heart stops hoping, slowly turning to ice. You stop hoping.

When Hermes comes to rescue you, you have changed much. You are colder. You have lost your heart. Yet you are more than grateful to be taken away. You take his warm hand, bowing your head in silent relief, ignoring Hades's eyes on you as you ascend to the world of the living.

Your mother's arms envelope you as your feet touch the soft grass. She morphs from an old, grief-bent crone, into the beautiful, loving goddess you know.

Your tears stain her robes, but she does not care. Her hand strokes your head, soothing you. You both thank the mortal who helped your escape.

They tell you the story: Demeter, horrified at your disappearance. She razed through the earth, turning over every stone to find you. No one seemed to know what happened, not even Helios, the sun.

Finally Triptolemus, the mortal, had explained that his brother, a swineherd, had despaired over losing his pigs to a deep cleft in the earth, and had heard the screams of a girl, thus your rescue.

But horror soon cuts through your happiness as a knife would a cord. Hades's gardener, holding high a blood-red pomegranate, too resembling the rose leading to your dark fate. The pomegranate is missing six seeds.

Demeter flies into a rage, but Zeus's word is final. One month you must spend with Hades for every seed. Six months in a year.

You weep in your mother's arms, but when the time comes, you must be ready to fulfill your duty.

Though you still despair over the outcome, you and your mother thank Triptolemus properly. You help him load Demeter's chariot with grain and take it down to earth. The two of you teach him to scatter the grain over the soil, and pass the knowledge to other mortals, so when you depart the world of the living for that of the dead, humankind would not starve.

You wave sadly to your mother as one last goodbye before raising your black cloak over your head and descending into darkness.

Over time, you grow accustomed to the whispers of the dead, the blackened palace, the sad garden. You slowly become as dark and sad as your husband.

Despite your absence, you know that above your mother waits sadly for your return. The earth withers with her, turning gray and white with sorrow. You wait.

You are silent.

Somber.

Bleak.

You are goddess of the whispering dead, lady of the silent earth, queen of the cold underworld.

You are Persephone.


End file.
